And who was responsible? The woman who lay in her place, staring out into the room which had witnessed that foolish, harmless life, which had witnessed that tragic death; and the man sleeping beside her. They two. Slowly, lest she should disturb him, the Bride raised herself upon her elbow, looked upon the sleeping face. It was a face still unfamiliar to her in sleep. The always close-shut mouth was open, the straight-cut upper lip was strained tightly over the gums with a look almost of suffering, the eyes and temples looked as if sunken in pain. Feeling her gaze upon him, the man's lids half lifted themselves, an incoherent word or two fell from the stretched lips, the head moved restlessly upon the pillow. Did he too guess this thing? Did he know? "If he does he will never tell it to me," the Bride said to herself, knowing well he would spare her that pain. In the next moment she was leaning over him, calling him in soft, distinct tones by his name. "Love," she said, "do you hear me?" He moaned, turning upon his back. The heavy jaw came fully into view, and the too thick throat which in the daytime the tall, close collar hid. With a light touch she swept the hair which, clinging low over his brow, so disguised it, backward. "I hear," he answered in the thick, difficult voice of the sleeper. "Love, I love you," she said. "Tell me, do you love me?" A pause; then, "With my soul," he answered heavily. "And--that other wife? Tell me, love." The answer had always to be waited for, and seemed to come in unwilling response to the command of an intelligence afar off. "Hate--I hated her," the sleeper said. "She knew it--at last. Did she--did she _kill_ herself? Tell me the truth, love, as you love me." No answer but a strangled muttering, a head that moved as if in pain. The eyes watching him saw that the sleeper was tortured. "But this once," she said to herself, "I must ask--I will know." She bent over, without touching him, and put her lips down close to his ear. "Swear to tell me the truth," she said in her distinct, arresting whisper. Long she waited, watching lips that writhed before speaking, eyes that seemed to ache to open and were sealed by an invisible hand. At length in the low, stumbling, unwilling voice came the response--"I swear." "Did--she--kill--herself?" "No!" "Oh, love! Are you certain? Will you swear it?" "I swear it," said the muffled voice. "Why are you so sure? Why? Oh, tell me! Listen: she said she died by her own hand." "A lie. It is a lie. I killed her." * * * * * Hours later, the light of morning, outshining the electric light, found the woman, the heavily slumbering man beside her, gazing, with a stricken face and eyes which looked as if sleep had been banished from them for ever, upon the new, unwelcome day.